


If I found you, would you let me come and stay?

by mtothedestiel



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Casual Sex, Domestic, Fluff, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Historical, Historical queerness, Labor Unions, M/M, New York City, Newsies - Freeform, Newspapers, POV Eliot Waugh, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Disability, Protests, Queer Themes, Single Parents, newsies au, which is not a plot factor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24314254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: Eliot Waugh is too old to be a newsie, but there's nothing else for him in New York. He's just gotta keep saving his pennies until he can buy two tickets West, then everything will change for the better....right?
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 19
Kudos: 59





	1. It's a fine life: part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erinalice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinalice/gifts).



> Hi all, this is my fic for @erinalice5 for the #NotAloneHere auction for queer Covid relief! She requested a Newsies Movie AU, and I'm thrilled to present the first chapter of my take on the movie plot. A few housekeeping things:   
> -This is Not an underage AU! i've aged up the characters to their season one ages and made that part of the story.   
> -This will be a multichapter fic, but I'll be cherry picking from the movie and adding some original material. The plot should be easy to follow in fic, but if you're not familiar with Newsies in general a glance at the wikipedia summary wouldn't do you any harm
> 
> Enjoy, and I hope you'll leave a comment if you like the direction I'm taking!

The sun rises over the city, painting the brick, wood, and stone into shades of hot red and gold. Still hidden in the early morning shadow of his fire escape, Eliot lights a cigarette and thinks about New Mexico. He watches the colors and imagines that he can see them all day, as far as the eye can see, painted over his own little plot of land, or maybe a storefront. 

God knows he’d be a great saloon keeper. He and Bambi would run a classy little den of sin.

_ Someday soon _ , he thinks, the dream safe for now in his own little cloud of tobacco smoke and the near quiet of dawn.

He’s already in his newsie drag for the day ahead. Shaved clean, hair wild under his cap, open vest over his shirt. It’s colorful as he can manage, of course. The whole point is to stand out so the customers can find him. It’s not how he’d dress if he could afford better—or afford a better job—but if he has to roll his pants up like he still oughta be in a boy’s home he can at least make sure his socks match his scarlet necktie. 

Eliot blows out a long stream of smoke, tipping his head back against the cool brick still untouched by the sun. In Santa Fe— you bet he’s going to wear his Sunday best every day of the week, homesteading life be damned. He’ll get himself ten different collars all starched white, and one of those long coats with the nipped waist the upper class gents wear on their daily strolls to the club. Eliot takes another drag and sighs at the injustice of the world. All those short stodgy bankers wearing flash clothes they don’t even appreciate. They haven’t got the height for it either, and here he is, six feet tall and languishing in knee pants. 

The dawn settles into something closer to daylight, and all around their tenement building factory whistles shriek, summoning their workers to the floor to earn their day’s wage. Eliot stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray he leaves on the ledge before he swings his legs back into the apartment where Margo is happily sleeping through the racket. It takes more tenderness than a mill whistle has to offer to wake his Bambi. 

He sets his feet down firmly in her little shoebox of a room. He didn’t have any problem sneaking through silently to get outside—part and parcel of being light in the loafers—but quiet is no longer the objective. 

“Rise and shine, Bambi,” he sing songs. “Time for working girls like us to seize the day.”

Margo groans audibly into her pillow, her tiny frame strewn across her single bed and her hair flying out of its braid. Eliot loves her terribly, from the scowl on her face to the rosette pattern on her flannel nightgown. 

“Come on.” Eliot perches on the edge of her pallet mattress, knowing that he’s being far too cheerful. “It’s nearing six-thirty.” 

“I swear to god, Eliot, you and your farmer’s clock,” Margo grumbles. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dearest,” Eliot replies, kissing the top of her sleep mussed hair. “My people have been dock workers since we stepped off the boat.” 

Margo doesn’t dignify that with a response, trying to steal a few more winks, so Eliot exits gracefully to put the coffee pot on. He slinks around his own larger bed, used to dancing a similar dance everyday in their limited space. Margo loves to tease him about it— _ Mr. Rockefeller over here, with your double bed, lah-dee-dah _ —but Eliot is just too damned tall for a single. Besides, he does it up neat as a pin every morning, and with some creative cushion acquisition it’s turned into a sumptuous little day bed for them to gossip on when the work day is through. With a few lit candles and a splash of liquor it’s like their own private Persian palace, and they can pretend they’re just too glamorous for things like sofas. It’s got nothing to do with what kind of square footage they can afford, of course. 

Eliot casts the thought from his mind as he stokes the stove-fire, ignoring the way the edge of his bed nearly touches the back of his knees. Really, they’re lucky to have as much space as they do. There’s a family of five next door in the same two rooms. 

“El?” Margo calls a few minutes later, perking up from the smell of the coffee percolating. “You want to help me with my stays?” 

Eliot assists with the art of cinching Margo into her perfect hourglass waist— _ a man’s job _ , she always says with a crooked grin—and then they share their coffee, strong enough to take the roof right off your mouth, while Eliot helps Margo with her hair. She does her hair as good as any Gibson girl uptown, and she does it all with a spotty mirror, a little oil, and Eliot there to pass the bobby pins. He’s happy to participate in the morning ritual. 

“...anyway, so he stormed right off the floor, and two hours before deadline! I thought Meyer was gonna blow a gasket when I told him. But that means there’s a spot for a new typesetter.” Margo looks at him pointedly as Eliot hands her another hairpin. “It’s good pay. Full time, even.” 

Ah. Another morning ritual they share. 

Eliot scoffs, though there’s nothing mean in it. “All those little letters? You know I can’t see ‘em straight. I’d be on the curb again in a day, flashing ankle for my supper.” 

Margo snorts, not honoring Eliot’s jest with a proper laugh. “What an ankle it is though.”

It isn’t like Eliot’s never had any education. He can read the headlines just fine. But the small stuff, all those words packed close together...they swim in front of his eyes like they got drunk on their way to the page.

Jokes aside, Margo can’t deny Eliot is right. “Well, how about working the proof press? Our guy now is terrible, and it’s all muscle memory, you’d have it down pat in no time—” 

“Bambi.” 

Margo purses her lips, like she wants to start another fight about this, but in the end she just holds her hand out for another pin. 

“There’s talk that they need a new stenog in the editor’s office,” she says after a minute. “I’ve been having Dareen help me with my typing during lunch, it ain’t so hard as they say. I’m up to fifty words a minute.” 

“Of course you are.”

Eliot slides the last pin into place in Margo’s practical twist. This one’s got a bit of mother of pearl on the end carved into a flower. A smidge of something fancy that Eliot had managed to save for as a gift last Christmas. 

“You’ll get the job,” he says, dropping a kiss on top of Margo’s head as she dabs rouge onto her cheeks from the small pot on the dresser. 

“It would be a good promotion. We’d be able to start saving again.” 

Eliot picks up the jar they keep on Margo’s vanity and gives it a shake. It’s a loud jangle, with a handful of coins and one or two precious crumpled bills. “Santa Fe by spring?” 

Margo hums. “Maybe the spring after that. But still.” 

“We’re already heading West, Bambi,” Eliot assures her. “The train’s just moving real slow. Either way, I’m proud of you, climbing the ladder like a real career woman.” 

They could save a lot faster if Eliot could climb the ladder a little himself, but it’s safer for him on the bottom rungs where nobody tries to put your name on a payroll. It’s a point of contention with Margo, who thinks he worries too much, but Eliot would rather worry now than worry from inside a prison cell or worse. Once they get to New Mexico he’ll be safe, and then he’ll take a turn as the breadwinner and Margo won’t have to do a spot of work except what gets her kicks.

Someday. 

“Speaking of, I’m gonna be late tonight,” Margo says. “Are you good for supper?”

Eliot raises one eyebrow at her teasing grin. As though he doesn’t do all the cooking around here. 

“I’ll manage somehow, darling.”

They kiss on the front walk just before seven, Margo on her way to her real lady’s job copy editing and Eliot on his way to hawk papers. They let the neighbors think they’re married so nobody gets any funny ideas, and every now and then that means putting on a show. Not that Eliot minds kissing Margo. She’s his girl.

Maybe when they finally get out West, they’ll tie the knot for real, he muses as he winds his way through the busy streets towards the distribution yard with his fifty cents for the day jingling in his pocket. It paints a pretty picture, just the two of them making their own rules on their own little homestead in Santa Fe, and making their own fun when they hitch the wagon up and hit the town. If it’d make Bambi happy, he’d do it. She likes stepping out on dates now, but he knows she isn’t the love and marriage type. It’s part of why they work so well together. Margo doesn’t fall in love, and Eliot can’t get married, not to any girl but her. They play domestic with each other instead and it fills in some of the gaps.

The city is waking up around him, not that it ever really sleeps. Folks hurrying to and from work, shopkeeps putting out their crates on the cobblestones for the day, carriages going to and fro carrying the rich too good for the sidewalk, Eliot dodges it all until he reaches the iron gates of Brakebills press where the usual gaggle of runaways and orphans are loitering. 

“Hey, the old man’s here!” 

“We thought you might’ve kicked the bucket, geezer!” 

“Your creaky knees giving you trouble again, oldtimer?” 

Ah, his own beloved little troupe of Weisenheimers. He’s a good foot taller than most of them—and a decade older or  _ more _ , god forbid—but Eliot has cultivated a measure of fondness for the ragamuffins. They look up to him, really, like a band of Dickensian orphans and he, their cultured Artful Dodger.

“Yes, It’s true, my darlings. I’ve somehow managed to escape the siren call of the grave yet again,” he announces as the boys flock around him. “You’ll all have to continue to vie for the top spot as Manhattan’s  _ second  _ best newsie.” 

They all seem to get a great kick out of Eliot’s airs, at least. And it’s probably the only group of boys in his whole life that Eliot doesn’t bother to butch up for. Hell, half of them are probably as queer as he is, not that he’s putting his nose anywhere near that business. He’ll help a kid out of trouble if he can but the last thing he’s after is any moon eyes in short pants trying to follow him home. 

“What’s the headline today, boys?” he asks. “Any wars break out overnight?” 

There’s a chorus of groans. 

“It’s the trolley strike,” Specs declares, thumbing over his shoulder at the billboard above the yard. “ _ Again.” _

“That’s three days in a row,” whines Dutchy. 

“What’s a guy gotta do to get a good murder around here?” Racetrack complains. 

“Or a bank robbery,” Skittery agrees. 

“A corrupt politician would do the trick,” Specs says thoughtfully. 

“Ha.  _ That _ ain’t news,” Racetrack scoffs. Which, he’s got a point there. 

Eliot purses his lips as he reads the headline for himself off the board.  _ Trolley Strike Continues: Negotiations at a Standstill _ . That’s not going to make any of them easy money. No news isn’t good news when you’re trying to sell papers at a penny a pop and you start the day fifty cents in the red. He’ll manage, of course, but it’s a longer day. 

Eliot’s chewing on that when he notices a new face among the freckled mugs of the regular boys. He’s older, like Eliot, and he’s wearing a shirt with a collar under his jacket like he’s on his way to court or something. The paper boys aren’t paying him much mind but they’re giving him a wide berth as they tend to do with non-threatening outsiders. Eliot watches as the stranger—whose arm is in a sling, mysteries on mysteries—lifts a small boy onto a stack of pallets on the far side of the gate, a soft smile on his face as they talk together. 

Something a little hungry unfurls in Eliot’s gut as he takes in that smile, and if he feels compelled to investigate, it’s no one’s business. He leaves the boys to their banter and approaches the pair. 

“I don’t recall seeing you around the yard before.” 

The man’s shoulders bunch up at once, as though he’s been caught somewhere he ought not to be. He rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder before turning to face Eliot. He must have been expecting someone shorter, as it takes his eyes a minute to trace up Eliot’s chest before they come to rest on his face. 

“That’s—um,” he says, like he’s taking Eliot in. His eyes are brown, Eliot happens to notice. “That’s because we’ve never been here before. Can I help you?” 

“I feel like you could use some help, as you might be lost,” Eliot says, all friendly. “Or, if you’re from some kind of church, we don’t need anybody around here handing out pamphlets.” 

The guy looks at him like he’s nuts. 

“I’m not from a church,” he says. He’s got a handsome face. Strong brows that frame it nicely too, even cinched together as they are. 

“Well you’re wearing your Sunday best on a Tuesday morning, so I figure you aren’t here to sell papers,” Eliot replies, crossing his arms. 

The guy straightens up, squaring his shoulders. “That’s exactly why I’m here,” he says, like it costs him something to do it. He holds his injured arm close to his body, like he expects Eliot to take issue with it, but Eliot knows kids who are working with a lot worse. It even helps sometimes, to get a little sympathy from the wealthy ladies, but Eliot’s got a feeling this guy isn’t going to want to play that angle. 

“I’m Quentin.” The man holds out his good hand. “Quentin Coldwater.” 

There’s something brave about Quentin Coldwater, Eliot can tell. Some story that Eliot isn’t in the know on, though he can piece together some of the clues. Nice clothes, an injury, a kid who ought to be in school. 

“Eliot,” he replies, shaking it. “Recent job change, then?” 

Quentin shifts awkwardly. “You could say that.” 

“Don’t worry,” Eliot assures him. “You’re only the second oldest paperboy in New York. Though this little guy might be the youngest.” 

“Hi!” the kid says, standing on the crate to stick out his hand to Eliot. “I’m Teddy.” 

Quentin puts his arm around Teddy’s waist to steady him while Eliot shakes his hand. Side by side there’s a clear family resemblance. A matching Coldwater nose, and eyes that narrow a touch at the corners.

“A little brother?” Eliot guesses. Quentin half smiles, a little rueful, and ruffles Teddy’s hair. 

“My son.”

Eliot doesn’t comment on the obvious fact that Quentin can’t be a day over 23, and Teddy looks almost six. Young people can get up into all sorts of trouble when they’re in love, a kid probably being the least of it. 

“I might have guessed, you two practically being a matched set and all,” Eliot says. Then, without thinking, he asks Teddy: “So why’re you hanging around with your old man? Where’s your mother?” 

“California,” the boy replies, without losing a drop of cheer. Eliot looks to Quentin with raised eyebrows. 

“What?” Quentin asks, with an expression that he must be assuming passes for tough. “You want me to write you a novel? It’s just the two of us and my pop, and we’re  _ fine _ .”

Eliot raises his hands in surrender. “I guess I’ll mind my business. You know much about selling papers?” 

Quentin raises his eyebrows. “I’m sure we’ll manage.” 

Now Eliot’s got his own papers to sell, and the jar on Margo’s vanity waiting for every penny he can spare. But something’s got him feeling like these two need his help. Maybe it’s Quentin’s bad arm, and Eliot’s caught a case of sympathy. Maybe it’s Quentin’s mouth, which hasn’t got a thing wrong with it and Eliot can’t help but notice. 

_ Maybe  _ cute kids move merchandise, and Eliot knows a business opportunity when it pops up and introduces itself. 

Who’s to say. 

“Manage? Sure,” Eliot agrees, a lovely little plan coming together as he claps Quentin Coldwater on his good shoulder. “We all manage, Q. But stick with me, and I’ll be sure to do you one better.” 

Further negotiations are interrupted by the bell, and the gates swing open for newsies looking to buy in to their share of the day’s profits. 

“C’mon, boys,” Eliot says as Quentin helps Teddy down from the pallet stack. “I’ve got lots of wisdom to share, and we've only got so much daylight. Welcome to the newspaper business!”


	2. It's a fine life: part 2

“So we’ve gotta pay up front for a hundred papers, even if we might not sell them all?” Quentin asks. He’s got his stack under his good arm and Teddy holding tight to his belt loop as they work their way uptown a bit. With a cute kid in tow Eliot’s ready to risk a nicer neighborhood being more hospitable to their business. 

“I know,” he says. “There’s no justice in the world. But don’t worry. We’ll sell them all.”

“But they’ll buy them back if we don’t, right?” 

Eliot laughs. “Oh, sweet summer Q.”

Quentin frowns. “This all kind of seems like Henry Fogg is taking advantage of a bunch of kids.” 

“And two grown men who ought to get better jobs,” Eliot agrees. “But it’s the system. Fogg. Hearst. Pulitzer. They all run it the same way. It is what it is.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so,” Eliot says, settling them on a nice busy corner of Park Avenue. “Here’s a good spot. Lot’s of traffic and close to the train station.” 

Quentin looks around like he wants to take notes. Eliot cuts the twine on his stack and tosses him a copy. 

“First step, find me a headline worth yelling in front of God and everybody, because the printed one isn’t going to get us anywhere,” he says. “An election, a murder, a natural disaster, something along those lines.” 

Quentin starts flipping through while Eliot kneels down to talk to his new star. God, Teddy is cute as hell. The ladies are going to fawn all over him. 

“Alright, Ted, we’re gonna play a game,” Eliot explains. “Like pretend.” 

“Okay,” Teddy says, glancing at his father, gives him a reassuring smile. 

“Do as he says, Ted. If it turns out he’s nuts we’ll just make a run for it.” 

That gets a glare from Eliot and a giggle from Teddy.

“Find me a headline, Coldwater,” Eliot orders. “And take that jacket off, you look like your forty and on your way to a funeral.” 

Quentin grumbles but obeys, obviously out of his depth and willing to take direction for the moment. He’s got a nice set of shoulders under his ill-fitting coat, and that’s not going to hurt with the ladies either. 

“Anyways, like I said, pretend,” Eliot continues, turning back to Teddy. “Just for today, we’re gonna pretend your dad’s not your dad, he’s your big brother, and you’re both orphans. You know what an orphan is?”

Teddy nods seriously, very invested now that Eliot is talking to him like another adult. “Like Oliver Twist,” he says. 

“Aren’t you well read.” Teddy opens his mouth to ask what that means but Eliot keeps on. “It’s _exactly_ like Oliver Twist, except you’ve got five sisters at home who are gonna starve unless you bring home the bacon by selling newspapers, because your big brother hurt his arm and lost his job at the factory.” 

“That’s exactly what happened!” 

“Ted,” Quentin interjects, a note of worry in his voice, but Eliot waves him off. 

“S’alright, a little truth makes the story easier to remember,” he says with a sympathetic glance at Quentin’s shoulder. Factory accidents are no joke. “How does that make you feel Ted?” 

Teddy looks uncertain. 

“It’s just pretend, remember? We’re just playing a game,” Eliot assures him. “You can tell me now, and at the end of the day everything will be okay again.” 

“Kinda scared,” Teddy admits, but Eliot can tell he’s a brave kid because he puffs up and declares, “But I wanna help too!” 

“Ted, you’re going to be an amazing help today,” Eliot promises. “First things first, we gotta practice your newsie holler. Here, watch me. Q, you got a story for me?” 

Quentin’s squinting somewhere in the vicinity of page six, which doesn’t bode well. “Uh, I got something here about a dog pulling his drunk owner out of the river Saturday night?” 

With the weight of a decades experience under his belt Eliot stands up to his full height, whips a paper up over his head, and shouts loud enough to scare the birds out of the closest tree: 

_“Ex-tray, Ex-tray, read all about it! Daring rescue from certain death on the Hudson, read it here only!”_

There’s a little frenzy of four or five passersby, and Eliot’s showing three pennies to the astonished Coldwater men in as many seconds. 

“Wow, I wanna try that!” Teddy declares. Quentin looks more skeptical.

“Did you just fake a Brooklyn accent?” 

“It’s what people expect,” Eliot says with a dramatic bow. “And I’m nothing if not in service to my public.” 

Quentin laughs in spite of himself, and Eliot can’t say he remembers a prettier sight in his life. His mind is soon back to business, however. 

“Alright, Teddy, there’s a nice group of genteel ladies coming by. Let’s see what you can do.” 

And so it goes through two hundred newspapers, one penny at a time. Most everybody and their mother reads the paper. It’s just a matter of whether they read Fogg’s _Times_ or Hearst’s _Sun_ . As far as Eliot knows Hearst doesn’t have Teddy Coldwater piping the headlines in his adorable child’s voice, or Quentin’s forearms in his rolled up sleeves offering ladies the paper with an _aw shucks_ grin he doesn’t realize is the most endearing kind of flirtation. Eliot fills in the gaps with his sheer force of personality and they’re out of merchandise with a couple hours of daylight to spare. 

“See, now we watch the weather,” Eliot tells Quentin as they stroll back downtown. Eliot’s got both of their bags slung over his shoulder along with Quentin’s Sunday coat so that Q can carry Teddy, who’s all but conked out against his dad’s shoulder. “On a better day, hot enough to get everybody outside, I bet we could do three hundred papers. Maybe four hundred on a holiday.” 

“I wouldn’t turn down the extra fifty cents,” Quentin agrees. A slip of his hair has fallen in his eyes and his good arm is full. He tries to blow it out if his face to no avail. Eliot doesn’t stop to think twice before combing it back behind Quentin’s ear with his fingers. Which…

It’s not the sort of thing he worries over with the newsies. He ruffles hair and tussles a bit like the rest of them, and they don’t seem to give a shit that he’s the queer big brother of the gang. But Eliot’s come home to Margo with bruises over less familiar touches with men he got his wires crossed with. 

Eliot snaps his hand away and waits for Quentin to do the same, to flinch and curse and hold Teddy away from him. But Quentin just sighs in relief. 

“Thanks, that was driving me nuts.” 

Heart settling back down from his throat, Eliot just manages a short, “Nothing to it.” 

“Anyways, I’d be glad to keep selling together, as long as Ted and I aren’t slowing you down,” Quetin continues. “We don’t need anybody’s charity, but—I mean, I thought we made a good team?” 

Quentin glances up at Eliot through his lashes as he says it, and there’s no way he’s doing it on purpose. Eliot would have any guy who wasn’t holding the six year old proof of his preference for women down an alley by now. 

Eliot laughs instead, and slings an arm over Quentin’s shoulders.

“Trust me, Q, the benefits were entirely mutual,” he says. “As long as Teddy doesn’t hit any sudden growth spurts, we might be looking at unimaginable riches.” 

“You mean fifty cents a day?” Quentin replies dryly, though he doesn’t do anything to shrug Eliot off.

“Maybe even seventy-five. Just think of it: five dollars a week under the mattress. Absolute decadence.” 

Quentin laughs, his eyes going a bit squinty with it. He’s warm, they both are after all day in the sun, and this close Eliot can smell him, clean masculine sweat and some kind of sharp lingering aftershave. 

This little partnership is raking in benefits already.

“Well, this is us,” Quentin says after a few blocks, nodding down a cramped side street. 

“Yeah? I’m just a few streets down near the mills,” Eliot says. “It’s like we’ve almost been neighbors this whole time.” 

“Yeah.” Quentin hesitates first a minute, even after Eliot hands him back his bag with his coat. 

“Is there anybody waiting for you at home?” He asks before Eliot can make his excuses and slink off.

“Not tonight,” Eliot replies, and when that doesn’t satisfy Quentin’s obvious curiosity: “I share a place with my best girl. She’s working late, is all.”

“Got any plans, then?”

Eliot shrugs. “I’ll be here and there. Might split a sandwich at the delicatessen if one of the scrawnier kids looks like they could use feeding up.”

“Well, not to deny anyone a half a sandwich,” Quentin says, ducking his head. “But you could always come back to ours. Pop’s probably working on supper. It won’t be much, but...” 

Eliot should say no. He should go to the deli, or home, to eat what meagre groceries they’ve got in the cupboard and save a little money. But he’s half curious, and half enchanted by Quentin Coldwater and his son. They’re the most interesting thing to happen to him in weeks.

“I won’t say no to the company, Q, but hang on a second.” Eliot spots a grocer on the corner and plucks one of his hard earned pennies from his pocket. “My mother always said never go to anybody’s house empty handed.” 

For his penny Eliot gets two handsome Idaho potatoes, despite Quentin’s half-hearted protestations. 

“Four is more than three,” Eliot says pointedly as they hike up the stairs to the Coldwater’s third floor rooms. “I can chip in the penny for my supper and some good conversation.” 

Teddy gets his second wind by the time they reach the top of the stairs and he’s the first through the door with the excited cry of “Grandpa!” as he runs into the arms of an older man who looks remarkably like Quentin.

“Hey, there, Teddy Bear,” says Ted Coldwater, hefting his grandson up onto his hip with a grunt. “How was your first day?” 

“We sold out!” Teddy says, all excited again now that there’s a grown ups attention to keep. “I’m a cute kid, so Eliot says I move merchandise.” 

“Is that so?” Ted’s eyes settle on Eliot, his brows raised. He’s older than Eliot expected, his hair all gray and his shoulders a bit weak under his shirt and suspenders, but he’s got the same kind eyes and Quentin and Teddy. 

It’s been a long time since Eliot stood face to face with any kind of father figure. He squirms, but luckily Quentin steps in, dropping his bag by the door and hanging his coat on a hook like second nature. 

“Pop, this is Eliot Waugh. He showed us the ropes today, and his girl’s working late, so I brought him home for supper.” 

“And I brought a little contribution,” Eliot says before Ted’s face has time to fall, setting his paper sack on the bit of table next to the stove where a pot of something is bubbling away, a bit thin but rich with spice. “So long as it doesn’t meddle with your recipe.” 

“Matter of fact I was just thinking this soup could use an extra potato or two,” Ted says, peeking in the bag. “That’s mighty generous of you, Eliot.” 

Ted doesn’t put up a single objection. As Eliot suspected, an extra man at the table might have stretched the Coldwater’s supper a little too far. 

“It smells great as is,” Eliot says, feeling more than a little awkward in this _home_. It isn’t like Eliot’s place with Margo and their ladies’ standards, but there’s a squishy sofa near butted up against a table with a few tin soldiers strewn about, and even a bit of lace on the curtains. It’s clear a family lives here, and one where a kid isn’t afraid of his father. 

“I’ve picked up a few good dishes here and there,” Ted says. “Runaway brides tend to run in the family, so Coldwater men have learned to fend for themselves in the kitchen.”

“Dad…” 

“What?” Ted says, setting Teddy down so he can slice up the potatoes and add them to the pot. “If it’s supposed to be a secret we’ve been doing a poor job of keeping it, son. What about you, Eliot?” 

“Me, sir?” Eliot says, taking off his cap and sitting when Quentin points him to a chair. 

“Ted is fine, son,” Ted replies. “Any runaway brides?” 

“Ah, no.” Eliot feels a flutter of panic when Quentin grabs a pail and vanishes back into the hall, probably headed for the tap. He hasn’t been alone with a father since he was fourteen, and he came out of that with a black eye. He swallows and keeps his voice steady and charming as he can. “Only for lack of trying. I’m not much the marrying kind.” 

“Eliot has a girl,” Teddy announces, climbing up in the chair next to him. “Her name is Bambi, and she’s pretty as the Queen of Sheba, but twice as smart.” 

“Well that certainly sounds nice.”

Eliot has to laugh. He must have been bragging about Margo earlier.

“You’ve got a memory like a steel trap, tiger,” he says ruffling Teddy’s hair. 

“All kids do,” Ted says, tasting his soup with a hum before adding a bit of salt. “But only for the details you don’t want repeated at the dinner table.” 

“Lesson learned,” Eliot agrees as Quentin returns with his pail of water. 

“Time for working men to wash up before supper,” he declares. He’s got his eyes mostly on Teddy, who picked up more than his share of city dust over the course of the day, but Eliot’s never turned his nose up at a bar of soap. After, they sit at the table and Ted says grace before bowls get passed and they dig into a hearty tomato soup with barley and Eliot’s potatoes. It’s spicy, and not half bad with the bread Quentin slices up. Eliot’s going to have to ask for the recipe. 

“So, Eliot, how long have you been in the newspaper business?” Ted asks, and that puts Eliot back into familiar territory. At the end of the day he’s a performer, and Quentin’s father is just a different sort of audience. So he shares anecdotes, reminisces over the worst weather he’s ever sold in, and gives his best impression of his most colorful customers. 

“Of course, I’ve got nothing on Quentin when it comes to winning over the high class ladies,” Eliot says, nudging Q with his knee under the table as he swipes up the last of the broth in his bowl with a bite of bread. “He’s not too tall, like me, is the thing. They’ve gotta look right at his handsome mug and turn him down. Impossible.” 

“Shut up,” Quentin mumbles with pink cheeks, nudging Eliot right back. “Besides, Teddy’s the real breadwinner of the day.” 

Eliot expects Teddy to have something precocious to add to that, but when he looks the littlest Coldwater is practically asleep in his bowl. He’s been a trooper all day, but a full belly was all it took for the hours to catch up with him. 

Quentin pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket as he stands to kneel in front of Teddy and help him wipe a bit of tomato sauce off his chin. 

“Time for working men to hit the hay, looks like,” he says, with an amused glance up at Eliot. 

“‘M not sleepy,” Teddy says sleepily. 

“Sure you aren’t, pal.” 

Quentin gathers Teddy carefully up from his stool, tucking his son’s head against his shoulder. 

“It’s too long a day for him, really,” he says. He looks pained, and not because of the strain Teddy’s weight probably puts on his arm. “He shouldn’t have to work at all.” 

“There’s worse jobs for a kid than selling papers,” Eliot says, not that it makes any of it better. But the thought of Teddy in a factory, or breathing chimney smoke...

“Eliot’s right,” Ted agrees. “He’s safe at least, and he can be with you instead of being cooped up here. Lord knows that’s all the boy wants.” 

Quentin’s eyes crinkle in a bit of a smile, though it’s sad. “I know.” 

Teddy mumbles something into Quentin’s collar, dead to the world. 

“I’ll just tuck him into bed,” he says. 

“He’s good with him,” Eliot says when Quentin disappears into the back room, leaving the door open just a crack. “Not everybody’s got that knack with kids.” 

Ted chuckles. “Don’t I know it,” he agrees. “I barely scraped by at thirty-five. I sure wouldn’t have known what to do with a son at Q’s age.” 

“I’m sure he’s glad for your help,” Eliot guesses. He honestly can’t imagine his father—wherever the bastard is—letting him live at home with a kid out of wedlock, if Eliot had had any interest in that kind of trouble, which he didn’t. 

“I do what I can, but Quentin’s been the man of the house since he was way too young for it,” Ted says, something sad in his eyes. “I’m proud of him. He’s rolling with the punches, even now.” 

“Do you still work?” Eliot asks, curiosity outweighing his tact. Three dollars and fifty cents a week from the _Times_ won’t pay for this apartment, humble as it is, so either Quentin has a hell of a savings somewhere, or— 

“I get a little pension from the Army,” Ted says, a twinkle in his eye that says he knows what Eliot’s asking after. “It doesn’t go as far as it used to, but we won’t be homeless, don’t you worry.” 

“Sorry,” Eliot says, lowering his voice. “It’s not my business. But Teddy’s a sweet kid, and Q—” 

“Is lucky to be whole and here.” Ted takes Eliot’s cleaned plate to the tub by the stove. “We almost lost him.”

“It wasn’t so bad as that, Pop.” Quentin leans against the doorway to the back bedroom, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s taken his sling off, but it’s plain he’s still holding his right arm stiffly. 

“You could have died, caught in one of those machines, or lost your arm altogether, god forbid,” Ted says seriously. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re blessed. Everything else is just details.” 

“I could do with a few less details,” Quentin says ruefully. “You see Ted’s growing out of his pajamas already?” 

Ted hums. “He’ll keep till Christmas. Besides, he’s a Coldwater. We only get so tall.” 

Quentin rolls his eyes as he reclaims his chair beside Eliot. “Don’t I know it.” 

“Can I offer you boys an after dinner drink?” Ted ask turning from the cupboard with a dark bottle of spirits in his hand. “I’m thinking of having a sip, so it’ll be open anyway.” 

Quentin frowns. “Dad, you said you were saving that.” 

“I’m still saving it,” Ted agrees. “For a special occasion. And what occasion could be better than a good day’s work and a new face at the table?” 

Quentin sets his jaw, and Ted’s genial smile doesn’t budge, but Eliot’s a people pleaser at heart. 

“Q and I can split one,” he volunteers. “Just a splash, Mr. Coldwater. My girl doesn’t love it when I come home with liquor on my breath.” 

“Well I won’t get you into too much trouble then,” Ted says with a warm chuckle as he pours a little of the whiskey into a tin cup and sets it between them. 

“Enjoy, boys. I’m taking mine to bed with my reading,” he declares. “Q, why don’t you show Eliot the roof? It’s a nice breeze out there tonight. You can talk shop without your old man underfoot.” 

“Sure, we might,” Quentin agrees. Ted ruffles his son’s hair on his way into the back room where Teddy is already asleep. 

“Goodnight, Curly Q.” 

Quentin smiles at his father, and it twinges something in Eliot’s gut that he’d thought was well scarred over. “‘Night, Dad.”

With both Teds gone to bed, they’re just two men at the table. 

“Come on, we may as well go up,” Quentin says after a beat. “Unless you’ve got somewhere to be?” 

Eliot shrugs, offering a half smile. “Not until the whistle blows in the morning.” 

Q smiles back. “Alright then. Grab the cup for me? It’s better if I spend the grip I got on the railing.” 

“Sure.” 

Eliot gets their whiskey as Q turns off the gas lamp over the table. Then they’re slipping out the back window and out onto the fire escape. 

“I hope you don’t mind my pop,” Quentin says, swinging his legs over the brick ledge of the building and onto the roof once they reach the top. “We don’t have a lot of guests, so he likes to play host.” 

“I don’t mind at all,” Eliot assures him, taking Quentin’s offered hand so he can follow him up. “He seems like...a good man.” 

“He’s always done his best.” Quentin leads him between strings of makeshift clotheslines to a rickety table and a long wooden bench against a lean-to that must cover the proper stairs that lead to the upper floors of the building. There’s more than a little magic to it, a secret shadowy cove surrounded by the laundry fluttering in the starlit breeze. Eliot can hardly see the buildings around them. It’s like being enclosed in clouds. 

“I’m just glad he’s still around, especially for Teddy,” Quentin is saying as he strikes a match and lights a small kerosene lamp on the table. The flame sputters to life, casting them both in a warm glow that fends off the worst of the darkness. “He’s getting older, and we don’t exactly have much in the way of family.” 

“Runaway brides,” Eliot guesses, setting their drink on the table and taking a seat beside Q. He stretches his legs out and crosses his ankles as Quentin pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He offers one to Eliot, who places it between his lips and leans in to let Quentin strike another match and light it for him.

“Arielle and I never really got that far,” Quentin says after blowing out a stream of smoke. “A wedding I mean.” 

Eliot’s in a listening mood, so he taps the ash of his cigarette and enjoys the look of Quentin’s profile in the lamplight. 

“I would’ve married her,” Quentin says. “We were young, but Teddy was coming either way so I was ready to do the right thing. But…” 

“California,” Eliot guesses. Quentin nods. 

“Her brother was on his way out there to a job with the railroads,” he says. “Arielle saw the out and took it.” 

“I’m sorry.” What else can Eliot say? It’s not like he can’t empathize with the lure of the Wild West, but he’s not leaving anyone behind either.

Quentin shrugs, taking a drag on his cigarette. 

“I spent my time being heartbroken over it,” he says. “In the meantime I had a son to raise, you know? You move on.” 

“I imagine you do.” 

“She writes him letters sometimes,” Quentin sighs. “So it’s not like he’s got nothing. Honestly I half wonder if Ted doesn’t know that mothers are supposed to stick around.” He laughs. “We’ve got a bad track record with them.” 

“Cheers to that,” Eliot agrees, taking a sip of their shared whiskey. It’s not the best stuff, but it was free, and it warms his belly well enough. He blots out his cigarette on the ground and passes the cup to Quentin. 

“Thank you,” Quentin says after a sip. “For helping us today.” 

“It wasn’t exactly selfless,” Eliot replies, eyes on Quentin’s lips, still brushing the rim of the cup in the same place his mouth touched just seconds ago. “I poached you, really. I’ll hear about it from the boys tomorrow.” 

“Still.” Quentin’s brow furrows a bit. “I would have been...too proud, to do the job right.” 

Quentin looks up at the stars. Eliot wishes he could smooth the frown from the corners of his mouth. 

“I get so frustrated,” he says. “I—when Teddy came I quit school, I found work, and—well, you see how we live, but it’s been alright, you know? I wasn’t saving much but Teddy never went hungry and the rent got paid. Now with this—“ he gestures to his arm in frustration. “It’s like I’m seventeen again. Like I was never worth anything to the factory. Never put in the extra hours to get the little promotions so I could pay for shoes or a book, or oranges at Christmas—“ 

Quentin seems to realize he’s gone off on a bit of a ramble, and he ducks his head, embarrassed. 

“Sorry,” he says. “These aren’t your troubles.”

“It’s alright.” Eliot pressed a hand he hopes is casual to the back of Quentin’s neck, giving him a bit of a shake. “We’ve all got shit like that, Q. You’re not alone in it.” 

Quentin, god, he _pushes_ back into Eliot’s touch, like he needs it. Eliot squeezes and then lets go, lest he give into temptation. 

“This is just for now,” Eliot says, brushing the back of his fingers over Quentin’s bad shoulder. “So’s selling papers. Nobody plans to do it forever, me least of all.”

“No?”

Eliot half grins. “I’m just feeding myself while I save up for a train ticket.” 

Quentin brings one leg up on the bench, resting his knee on his chin.

“Where to?” 

“Santa Fe.” Eliot looks up to the stars. They say you can see a million of them out West, and the sky is blue and green and violet like it’s been painted with a brush. “Me and Bambi—she’s the only family I got—we’re aiming to get ourselves a homestead and play cowboy.” 

Quentin glances at him through his lashes, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

“I never really saw the appeal,” he said. “But...it would be a good look for you.” 

“You think?” Eliot says, tossing his curls rakishly. “Margo says I’ll be too tall for a horse. I don’t want to look the fool once I get out there.” 

“Uh, no,” Quentin says, his eyes dragging down Eliot’s long legs before glancing away. “I’d say you’re a good height.” 

Eliot sets down the whiskey between them. “Would you?” 

“Yeah.” Quentin’s eyes are dark, and maybe it’s the light but if Eliot didn’t know better he’d swear—

A soft pair of lips framed in prickly stubble presses against his own, there and gone before Eliot has time to so much as gasp. 

Quentin just kissed him.

A lot of assumptions start to reshuffle themselves in Eliot’s mind, and he’s still getting his head right side up when Quentin—eyes hooded, lips parted, oh sweet god on High—leans in again, and Eliot jolts back out of reflex. 

That leads to a few seconds of chaos. 

“I—oh. Did you not want—” Quentin’s brow furrows, then his eyes fly wide.

Eliot tries to reassure him, but Quentin is already on his feet.

“I mean, I thought you were— but, oh Christ—” he blanches. “If I was _mistaken—_ ” 

Eliot grabs Quentin around the wrist, real gentle, just to stop him looking so terrified. 

“Take a breath, Q.” 

He waits for Quentin’s shoulders to drop before he continues.

“You’re not mistaken,” he says. 

“No?” Quentin takes a step closer.

Eliot circles his thumb over the delicate skin of Quentin’s wrist. 

“Definitely not. You just surprised me, what with the baby downstairs and all.” 

A blush stains Quentin’s cheeks. “Gals are one thing and guys are another,” he says. “I like ‘em both. But you’re—” 

“A real man’s man,” Eliot promises, getting his feet back enough to turn the phrase a little salacious. “You were thinking of taking me for a spin?” 

If Quentin wasn’t bright red before, he sure is now. So cute. 

“When you say it like that it sounds like I think you’re cheap,” he says, sheepish. “We don’t have to do anything, but you’re so, um—” Quentin gestures broadly at Eliot’s person, and yes, he knows he cuts a pretty picture, thank you very much— “And if we’re both...I just thought—”

“We make friends where we find them. I get it, Q.” It isn’t easy to meet guys, even in the city where nobody gives a shit so long as you keep it to yourself. Eliot’s no stranger to striking while the iron is hot, and Quentin is a lot hotter than Eliot’s usual luck. “But for the record, I think you’re pretty—” he mimics Quentin’s gesture from a moment ago. “—yourself.” 

Quentin is so pretty in pink, like no one’s ever paid him a compliment in his life. Eliot’s hardly the king of romance, but this much he can do, and with pleasure.

What a pleasant turn this evening has taken.

“C’mere, handsome,” he coaxes him, knitting their fingers together. “Do you want to sit on my lap for a while?” 

Quentin does. 

It’s already a banner day on the books from where Eliot is standing, but he’s not about to turn down a little something extra, and Quentin is different from the usual brand of Nance or Nelly. Not that Eliot thinks he’s too good for that. He used to be quite the swish himself once upon a time, when he still had a fresh face and underfed figure that had older guys offering to buy him dinner. 

Quentin, on the other hand, he’s got soft long hair and a pretty mouth that parts real nice for Eliot’s tongue when he slips it to him, but whatever he used to do at that factory made him solid in the shoulders. He’s got calluses on his hands when he uses them to cup Eliot’s face, his thumbs brushing against the grain of Eliot’s five o’clock shadow like it’s a treat. His thighs are heavy across Eliot’s lap. It’s a nice weight holding Eliot down to earth. He winds one arm around Quentin’s waist, uses the other to cup a nice handful of his upper thigh, and goes along for the ride. 

They make a little time, and Eliot’s trousers are just getting a little tight when Quentin tries to put his arms around Eliot’s neck and flinches out of the kiss. 

“You alright?’ Eliot asks, lips still brushing over Quentin’s jaw. 

“Just this damned arm,” Quentin grumbles, thumbing a tender spot above his collarbone with a wince. “I forget putting my elbow above my shoulder is a bigger ask than it used to be.”

“Let’s not, then.” Eliot guides Quentin’s left arm around his neck, and the right low around his waist. Then he presses the flat of his palm between Quentin’s legs, thumbing over where he’s starting to get hard. “This alright?” 

Quentin presses their brows together, shifting against Eliot’s hand with a shaky exhale. “Yeah.” 

It doesn’t take much to make Quentin come, once Eliot gets him out of his pants and in his hand. He can only attribute half of that to his own personal magnetism. Quentin hasn’t said, and Eliot doesn’t ask, but it’s pretty clear that between getting hurt and trying to keep his family fed Quentin hasn’t seen much to himself lately. 

“Oh shit,” Quentin gasps, laughing into Eliot’s mouth as he jerks him off in his hand. “Damn, El, that’s good.” 

Eliot loves that laugh already. He wants more of it, and more of Quentin, his cock full and thick in Eliot’s grip and his mouth soft and open for kisses. 

“I’ve been looking at your hands all day,” Quentin confesses as he comes, squirming on Eliot’s lap in a way that brings Eliot’s attention to his own developing arousal. 

“Glad to be of service.”

When Quentin is spent Eliot finds his handkerchief and cleans him up as best he can, getting up close and personal with the scent of his aftershave as he kisses his throat.

“You’re hard, yeah?” Quentin says, rocking down on Eliot’s lap a little. 

Eliot steals a kiss from Quentin’s pleasure easy mouth. “As it just so happens, I am.” 

Quentin slips his left hand between their bodies to pet clumsily over the front of Eliot’s trousers. When his eyes flutter open they’re dark. 

“I can do you with my mouth,” Quentin says, fast and breathless. “I’ve—with a few other guys, and they seemed to think I was good at it, anyway.” 

Eliot hums, thumbing over the full bow of Quentin’s bottom lip. 

“I bet you are.” 

He doesn’t need any more encouragement than that, and before Eliot’s got his head on straight Quentin is kneeling between his thighs. They work together on Eliot’s button fly and then Quentinis guiding Eliot’s cock through the slit of his drawers and into his mouth. Sighing long and soft, Eliot slides his hands into the curtain of Quentin’s hair and lets him work.

Quentin doesn’t try any tricks like some boys might, but he does the job and does it right. He’s steady and sure, some might even say matter of fact, but in Eliot’s experienced opinion there’s never anything matter of fact about getting to know a warm mouth with a sweet man attached.

“I wonder if I dreamed you up,” Eliot hums when Quentin has him right on the edge. It’s hard to imagine Eliot just stumbled into a man who wants to work together, who wants to feed Eliot at a family table and then suck him off sweet like this by the light of the stars. 

Quentin’s prettier than any buckaroo Eliot has bothered to imagine enjoying a tumble with once he hits the West, that’s for sure. 

Whiskey warming his blood and Quentin’s square hands steady on his thighs, Eliot bites his bottom lip around a smile and comes. 

Quentin pulls back and finishes him with his hand, working him until he’s nearly soft and he can clean him up a bit with a handkerchief of his own. Eliot drifts for a blissful minute, combing his fingers through the silky ends of Quentin’s hair and admiring the swollen red of his lips.

When he’s got his wits about him again Eliot crooks a come hither finger and Quentin leans up on Eliot’s thighs with his mouth still wet, bracing his weight on his good arm as Eliot tugs him in for a kiss. 

“I should get going,” Eliot murmurs when they part, keeping anything cruel out of it. “Bambi will wonder after me.” 

“Alright,” Quentin says, still flushed. “You ever want to, um, do this again sometime, though, you let me know.” 

Eliot raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?” 

Quentin wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a grin playing there. “Yeah.”

Going steady can be a dangerous business, but a pretty face and a prettier mouth has got Eliot feeling a little foolhardy. 

“You go downstairs, and you think of me tonight, alright?” Eliot murmurs, pressing his lips to the corner of Quentin’s kiss swollen mouth. “I’ll see you in the yard tomorrow, and we’ll see where things take us.” 

Quentin smiles, a shy thing in the moonlight that’s going to follow Eliot home. 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

Eliot sends him off with one last kiss and a pat on the behind. Then he leans back against the table for a few more minutes and looks at the stars, thinking about family dinners, and eyes that narrow a bit with a smile, and the sound Quentin made when he came. 

Eliot shimmies down the fire escape after and walks back to his place with Bambi whistling. 

A thousand miles away, but for a minute there he swears he could taste Santa Fe.

**Author's Note:**

> More to come!


End file.
